


even now i may confess

by pennandink (orphan_account)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Force Dyad (Star Wars), Forced Marriage, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/pennandink
Summary: Rey, a former Valo bookkeeper, marries Kylo, defacto leader of Katala, on a rainy afternoon in the dead of winter. By spring, she has never hated--or desired--anyone more.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	even now i may confess

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello, how are you. So, I realize this has been done before, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone so here we are! I would greatly appreciate your feedback; I'm new to writing for this fandom. :)
> 
> The title is taken from an Alexander Pushkin poem titled "I Loved You."

_The universe is held together on a string. On one end, the light of creation; on the other, the darkness of all mankind. Balance lives in the middle, where the two ends do not meet. –– Valo Book of Wisdom_

Rey Nimetön, bookkeeper for the Holy Order of Valo, ward of High Elder Luke Skywalker, never imagined herself as a bride. In truth, she actively ignores fleeting wonderings of matrimony. Though she spends her days dressed in white, she knows deep in the creases of her soul that marriage, lifelong companionship, does not lie in her future. Long ago she made peace with the fact; truly, she draws comfort from it now. While the other girls promised to the Holy Order make their way to their marriage beds, she finds strength in her continued freedom.

She’d been born free. She fully intends to die that way.

_Intended._

Intentions, she knows now, are fickle things never to be trusted. For she here stands, dressed no longer in white but in green, the color of peace, moments away from marriage to her loathed enemy. Her blood boils at the thought.

High Elder Leia Organa turns the mirror toward the pale light streaming through the window. Her intention is to soothe the burn now forever etched in Rey’s memory—Rey knows this—yet she takes the gesture with some measure of offense. She can see just fine without the High Elder’s assistance.

“You look every bit a leader,” Leia says. Again, her words are no soothing ointment because they are, indeed, a falsehood. Rey has not—and will never be—a leader. Both women, despite the decades of age and wisdom between them, know this.

Rey looks at herself. The gown of crushed green velvet is soft against her freshly-washed skin. Her hands, which shake with anger, remain hidden beneath the wide, flowing sleeves. Bands of gold circle her wrists and a thin gold chain wraps around her waist. In her twenty-one years of living, she has never seen herself in such a fashion. It rankles that her first occasion for finery is wasted on her wedding day.

“Let us not forget the robe, my dear.”

Leia glides to the wardrobe, cracks open the left door, and withdraws a heavy-looking garment. Rey looks away, drawing a deep breath through clenched teeth. The robe was never meant for her; it is reserved for the reigning king or queen. Up until four days ago, Queen Priscilla had the honor of wearing the gold robe. But she is dead now; vanished to the ether, along the rest of Valo’s _enlightened._

With pinched lips, Leia guides Rey’s arms through the armholes, void of any sleeves, then smooths the shoulders down. Her touch is feather-like, noncommittal.

The robe’s golden hue offsets the green of Rey’s gown well. The intricately embroidered hem, the equally-as-embroidered panels—both complement the plain gown underneath. Even the train, which extends further than Rey first thought, turns her green wedding dress into a gown fit for a future queen. She loathes to admit it, but she does.

“You know”—Leia adjusts folds here, busies herself there, avoiding eye-contact.—“I take no pleasure in this.”

Rey cannot spot the biting retort which leaves her mouth. “Yet you do nothing to stop it.”

Leia’s eyes flick up at this. They meet Rey’s in the reflection of the mirror. Her gaze is hard and unyielding. In days past, Rey might cower under the clanswoman’s gaze, back herself into a corner and apologize for her lack of deference. Today, though—Today, she does not cower; she does not apologize. She meets Leia’s pointed stare with one of her own.

“This is out of my control,” Leia says.

“How can you say that?” Rey whirls on her heel to face Leia. The skirt of her dress and the hem of her robe bunch around her ankles. “You are the highest of our Elders. I do not believe you are powerless in this decision.”

Instead of offering another excuse, Leia lifts a single brow. Her eyes flash with an emotion Rey can’t place. “We must make sacrifices for the good of our people, Rey. For the good of our clans. For the future of our clans.” She emphasizes the word future, and Rey looks away, properly scolded.

Leia is right, of course. The future of Valo above all—hasn’t that been the lifeblood of Rey’s work all these years? No matter what it takes, she must be willing to protect her people.

Yes, of course Leia is right.

Rey sighs. She stretches out her hands and, after a moment’s pause, Leia grasps Rey’s fingers. The older woman’s hands are warm, her knuckles swollen with age. With a measured breath, Rey again looks into Leia’s eyes, searching for a way out that she will not find.

“I will do this,” Rey says. “You have chosen me, and I am honored.”

Leia’s face softens. In a show of tenderness Rey is not accustomed to, Leia brushes her hand across Rey’s cheek. “You were chosen because of the pureness of your heart. Your husband—” Her voice hitches on the word, her eyes flick to the ground, and Rey’s brow tightens, but then Leia recovers herself. Her voice is stronger when she speaks again.

“Your husband is of Katala; this you well know. His heart is not pure and I fear it never will be. But the time for old grudges and old hatred is dead. There are dark things on the horizon. Myself—the other Elders—we can feel it coming. You, Rey—you and your husband have the great burden of keeping our clans, our world, safe. Do you understand me?”

Rey does not understand. There is so much she does not understand.

But she nods anyway. In time, she hopes she will find the answers. She prays to the gods that she will find the answers. She cannot afford to let Leia or her brother down.

“I will be there to guide you, as will my brother.” As if she senses Rey’s unease, Leia squeezes Rey’s shoulder. “You will never be alone.”

A gentle knock on the door breaks the heavy air in the room. As Leia crosses the floor, Rey turns to the window high on the wall. Raindrops slide down the panes of glass like teardrops, dripping into the blades of grass which sprout along the ground. She wonders if this is the last time she will ever be in her own quarters. Despite their location underground, hidden away from the rest of the citadel, she has grown used to the quiet, to the solitude. Among other things, she doubts she’s ready for the bustle of the world above.

A hand curls around her elbow. Rey stiffens because she knows what’s coming next.

“Rey, it’s time.”

***

The doors to the Great Hall remain closed until Leia and Rey make their approach from the south hall. At the sight of the heavy doors swinging open, Rey stops short, her breath gone shallow. She has never been allowed within the Great Hall, never had any reason to a part of the banquets or the Council of Elder’s meetings. The idea of entering as herself, a simple bookkeeper and orphan girl, and leaving leader of Valo, married and sworn to uphold the sanctity of the Holy Order, makes a sweat break out under her arms.

Leia turns around with a frown when she realizes Rey is no longer by her side. Those few moments of patient kindness she gave Rey in her quarters are gone, replaced by urgency and frustration. She all but snaps her fingers and points to the stone floor beneath her feet.

“Here,” she hisses.

Rey swallows past the lump in her throat. She kicks herself inwardly and curses her trembling hands. Maker of all, she was chosen for this! _Her_ —of all people, of all in the Holy Order! The time for fear is long gone.

Lifting her chin, Rey clears her face of any emotion. One thing she knows for certain amidst all the other things she does not know is her husband is of Katala. She was raised believing those in the Katalan clan value nothing but greed and power and glory. She still believes this; she believes this despite the fact that her marriage is a sign of peace between the clans. And knowing her husband’s origins, she will not allow him to see her with anything other than cool indifference on her face.

She follows Leia into the Great Hall.

Before anything else, she is struck by the size of the room. She is used to the Holy Order’s cramped and ill-used archives, which boast fine layers of dust and crumbling manuscripts. The Great Hall, however, is nothing like the archives. The ceiling is vaulted toward the heavens, heavy wooden beams crossing the space between one side of the room and the other. Black pillars hold the beams in place and contrast the pale gray of the floor. Windows of stained blue and silver glass, the colors of Valo, line the walls and allow rays of light to fill the room. Ahead, high above the dais, a circle of that same blue and silver glass sparkles with the light of the sun; it is shaped in the form of Valo’s crest, each color alternating in slices. In the middle of the crest, a dark grey tree stands with no leaves to cover its branches.

Rey’s eyes trail from the crest to the small gathering of people who stand around the dais. Her heartbeat hammers in her ears, but she continues walking—walking toward her husband.

He stands with his back to her, but when someone at his side touches his arm, he turns and Rey nearly trips over her own feet. He is a storm cloud, of that there is no question. She can feel the hatred oozing from his eyes as she closes in on the dais, and he seems to have no compunction with the way he looks her over, calculating and displeased. His hair, black like tar, brushes the top of his dark, ribbed tunic when he turns his head to the front of the Great Hall. His appraisal of her, it seems, has ended. When she reaches his side, the scent of leather and sandalwood fills her nose. She dares glance to her left, but avoid looking up to where he towers over her; she looks past him, at his entourage, all clad in the same black clothing so customary of Katala.

A priest of the Holy Order—Aeon Lankost, if she is not mistaken—gestures to Luke, who appears out of the collection of High Elders and Holy Order attendants. Rather absentmindedly, Rey wonders about Sena Pentag, the closest thing she has ever had to a friend. Sena married a year prior and Rey hasn’t heard from her since. She wonders if this will be her fate as well, absorbed by her husband, tucked away, never to be heard from again. Considering the sheer bulk of the man next to her, it isn’t hard to consider that her own essence will soon be swallowed by his.

“Are the participants well-prepared?” Aeon Lankost breaks the thick silence with his croaky voice. He speaks to Luke.

“They are.”

Luke, standing to Rey’s right, studiously avoids her searching gaze. It is the first time she has seen him since Leia relayed the news of her change in station. Her fears are confirmed by his steely stare and clenched fists: he’s been avoiding her.

Lankost nods and swivels to face the waiting pair with all the speed of a slug. “Then we will begin.” He licks his chapped lips and glances down at the heavy book in his hands.

“Wait!”

Before Lankost can begin, a strained voice pipes up from the Katalan clan. All heads shift and watch as a man with red hair and sharp features breaks his way through the gathering. He grabs Rey’s intended—and she realizes she does not know her intended’s name. Leia failed to mention it.

Speaking in hushed tones, the Katalan turns his back to Lankost. Due to her proximity, Rey overhears his frantic words. “Where is our priest, Ren? There should be a priest from _both_ clans.”

Ren—and Rey must repeat this in her head several times—shrugs of his clansman’s hand with little more than a flinch of a muscle. “This ceremony is of little consequence, Hux,” he says, and Rey is surprised to hear a voice like butter. “It is what comes after that counts.”

Hux hesitates, his jaw clenched tight. Ren looks at him, his nostrils flaring, eyes flashing a warning. Rey watches Hux’s face drain of any resolve; he backs away. Rey draws in a slow breath and fists her hands in her dress for strength.

“May we proceed?” Lankost looks bored, and Rey isn’t sure if he is bored or simply days away from going senile. The flesh of his face is barely holding to his skull, and his eyes are red with age.

Luke answers. “Go on.”

“Kylo Ren of Katala and Rey Nimetön of Valo, under the watchful eye of the Maker, you have gathered here today to mark an end to the struggle and strife between our two clans. Your union signals a peace, an end to hatred, and a hope for the future. More than that, your union is a promise—a promise that our two clans will unite as one should any outside enemy attempt to infiltrate the sanctity of our borders.” Lankost pauses and looks up. “Do you agree to uphold these values?”

Rey waits for Kylo to answer first. He does, but it is only with a nod. She follows suit.

Lankost snaps the book shut; a plume of dusts lifts into the air. He hands the book off then motions to the floor. “Kneel.”

Rey does so without issue. Though she has never attended a wedding ceremony before and she does not know what will come next, she is eager to go through the motions, if only to get it all over with. Kylo, on the other hand, does not seem as eager. He remains standing, his hands clasped behind his waist, eyes glued on Lankost’s forehead. The hard-stone floor digs into Rey’s knees, and she twists in an attempt to alleviate the pain.

Lankost frowns. “Kneel, Ren.” He points to the ground with a long, bony finger. “You must.”

Hux, the Katalan clansman of earlier, speaks through clenched teeth. “Ren, do it.”

“Like hell I will.”

What comes next stills the air in Rey’s chest.

Lankost’s face clears of its weariness. He sweeps aside his white robe and, with an impressive amount of force for a man so frail, grabs Kylo by the shoulder and all but forces him to the floor. Kylo grunts when his knees hit the ground, and he jerks his body away from Lankost. The old man only reestablishes his hold on Kylo’s tunic, his knuckles white with poorly concealed rage. Then he reaches out to hold Rey’s shoulder. In his anger, his nails dig into the fabric of her dress. She winces. With a flourish of his wrists, Lankost forces the pair to twist on their knees and face one another. He grabs Rey’s hands, forces them to the shared space between herself and Kylo; he then does the same with Kylo, until both of her hands are held between both of his. Rey’s hands disappear between Kylo’s, and she again imagines herself turning to vapor behind her husband’s overwhelming presence.

Lankost snaps his finger at one of the Holy Order attendants. “The cloth,” he barks.

The attendant—a girl dressed in white not unlike Rey days earlier—brings forward a long strip of red cloth. Her face remains hidden beneath a veil, her steps small. She walks away from Lankost without turning her back.

“This cloth,” Lankost begins, “is a representation of the binding covenant of marriage.” As he speaks, he winds the cloth around, around, around Rey and Kylo’s intertwined hands. He winds the cloth so tight Rey begins to lose feeling in her fingers. “By acknowledging your bound hands, you so too acknowledge your commitment to the prosperity, care, and honor of one another.”

Rey lifts her eyes from the ground. When she meets Kylo’s stare, she is unsurprised to see him staring right back at her. His eyes brim with contempt. She looks down, studies a rut in the stonework.

Lankost puts a hand on the back of Rey’s head, one hand on the back of Kylo’s head, and pushes them forward. Rey catches herself before her forehead can slam into Kylo’s chin. After a moment, breathing heavy, she centers her forehead along Kylo’s at Lankost’s nudge. She can feel every exhale, every inhale, Kylo makes against her cheek.

“Repeat after me, children.”

Kylo stiffens at the word _children_ but makes no effort to fight Lankost again.

“I kneel here bound…”

Rey struggles to speak past her dry throat. When she does speak, her voice is barely a whisper. “I kneel here bound…”

“Kylo?”

“I kneel here bound…” The restrained anger in Kylo’s voice—the hatred, the malice—it sends a shiver down Rey’s spine, and she wishes she could pull her hands away.

“…pledging my commitment to you…” Lankost pauses until both have repeated. “…from now until the end of time…” Another pause. “Rey, repeat after me now: I am your wife.”

Rey forces her eyes open. Though she can barely see past the bridge of her nose, she wants to see all she can in this moment. “I am your wife,” she whispers.

“Kylo, repeat after me: I am your husband.”

Kylo practically snarls. “I am your husband.”

“Together: May we be one, complete and satisfied, whole and unbreakable.”

When the last of the sentence leaves Rey’s mouth, a rush of anger surges through her veins. She struggles to aid Lankost as he unravels the cloth from their conjoined hands. In the end, she ends up scrambling to her feet once free, frown etched along her forehead. She resists the urge to spit at Kylo’s feet.

As for her husband, he stands with grace and ease, so unlike the rage she felt in him seconds prior. He stretches to his full height; his eyes slide to Rey, and he looks her over.

“Like what you see?” she bites out.

“No—of course not.”

He leaves, his entourage trailing behind him, abandoning Rey at the altar.

She couldn’t be more relieved.

**Author's Note:**

> valo –– Finnish for "light"  
> katala –– Finnish for "dark"  
> nimetön –– Finnish for "nameless"


End file.
